Polaris
by XxZuiliu
Summary: It's curious, how even the tiniest ripples in the ocean of the cosmic universe can stir the waves of reality. SI, drabble-ish format.
1. I-X

_There are many "what if's" in this world... but only ones that matter are "what is"._

* * *

**I.**

Stella Squalo had always been a strange child.

It wasn't just that she was unnaturally smart for her age. Oh no, that was only to be expected of the scions of the Squalo line. It wasn't just that she was much more perceptive than any normal girl her age should be, either. That could easily be attributed to eugenics -her mother had been quite the charming tactician and spy in her younger glory days.

It was that she _knew_ she was dying and seemed to be perfectly content with it.

The illness was a rather queer and obscure one, one that surfaced periodically from time to time within the illustrious Squalo lineage -one that hadn't been seen for quite a few decades now. Death always came quickly to those unlucky enough to be afflicted with it, the disease known to attack the corporeal body before turning its attention onto the flames within; eventually consuming the _mind_ before leaving the victim as naught but a hollow, empty shell. The children who carried this illness were always weak and sickly their entire lives -the longest lifespan recorded being eighteen.

(It was considered to be a miracle if the child could even survive its first moon.)

Maybe it was due to this terminal disease whittling away at her rapidly dwindling lifespan that caused her parents to consciously distance themselves from her. Maybe it was due to her overwhelming weakness and frailty that caused those around her to treat her delicately, as if she was made of glass. Maybe it was due to the queer way that her _impossibly_ observant eyes followed her caretakers that made the servants of the house uneasy around the sick little girl, no matter how harmless she looked -not even when her gaunt, tiny figure was completely _swamped_ under the thick swan-feather blankets of her velvet bed.

So maybe that was the reason why no one ever really paid any attention to her. Not just because she was a lost case, given up as dead from the moment of her birth, but because nobody _wanted _to associate themselves with her.

…

... Not that little Stella really minded this very much, of course. After all, she didn't even want to be here in the first place. No one wanted to wake up and find themselves living in a world of psychopathic mafia superhumans as naught but a helpless invalid.

So perhaps it was for the best that she quietly fade into the background -away from the dangers of the future and the violent bloodbaths that would doubtlessly ensue, considering if she'd even live that long.

Her diminutive presence in the Squalo household continued to lessen over time, particularly after the death of her blue-eyed mother -her biological mother of this world, mind you- and when her father had promptly decided to marry his second wife. Stella had only been present at the extravagant celebrations for a scant few moments before she'd quietly excused herself and slipped away from the uproarious festivities to retire to her chambers. The girl really hadn't fancied collapsing in a dead faint right in the middle of the wedding ceremony.

(… She'd lost consciousness halfway to her room in the Squalo Manor. It was only lucky that the old head butler of the house had been passing by at the moment, and had carefully gathered up the sickly young child in his arms and carried her the rest of the way to her room.)

She was lucky.

Or maybe she _wasn't_.

... Who knows? Maybe she would've frozen to death on the staircase, had she not been discovered by that grandfatherly old butler. Maybe that old butler wouldn't have seen the tear-tracks staining the fragile little girl's cheeks and feel a corner of his heart soften for the neglected child that lingered in the shadows of the Squalo mansion like a ghost.

Maybe it would've been better if she had died next to the silver-rimmed railings of the marble banister then. After all, she was _supposed_ to be dead -dead as in _dead_.

Dead before she'd ever even been_ born_ in this world.

**II.**

"You do it."

"No, you do it!"

"Heck no! _You_ do it!"

"Are you kidding me? I already did it once this week! There's no way I'm going to-"

"_Ahem_."

Startled, both maids jumped with an undignified squawk choking their throats as the stern voice cracked over them like a whip. Their expressions immediately changed from harried and indignant to meek and guilty.

The old butler who'd just turned the corner in the hallway surveyed the young girls in front of him with a critical eye, "... Just _what_ is going on here, exactly?"

"O-oh, um..." Their eyes darted around nervously in a furtive manner, subconsciously flinching away from the level gaze, "Uh, about that, y'see... er..."

The young maids winced as the butler folded his arms across his chest.

"Well... we were just, um, figuring out whose turn it was to, ah, bring the little miss her dinner today."

The elderly gentleman arched a fine eyebrow, "... And that was why you decided it would be a good idea to bicker with each other like children in the hallway?"

The duo flushed under his reprimands.

"No! I-I mean, yes, but..." the loud protests dropped to a low whisper, "We... we can't help it, Majordomo. The little miss, she's... she's creepy. Unnatural. She acts so queer at times, and there's no way those eyes of hers belong on a child, much less one as sick as she! And lately... lately..."

The younger maid's voice trailed off into nothingness, and the older one, finally taking pity on the younger girl, picked up from she left off.

"We don't mean to add to those rumors flying around, Majordomo, but lately..." Her eyes furrowed, hands clasping and unclasping over her chest, "Lately, whenever someone goes around the little miss's room, there's... strange things. Shadows on the wall, voices that come out of nowhere, objects that disappear the moment you turn around..."

The girls shivered.

"She's not lying! I swear, Majordomo!" The younger girl blurted out in a desperate hush, "I've seen it myself! When I went to dust the little miss's rooms the other day, her eyes were just _watching_ me, and whenever I turned around there was this _chill_ on my back and these clacking sounds, and-"

"That's enough now," the distressed maid fell silent once more, and the old butler sighed tiredly... before reaching out a single hand towards the shivering pair of girls, "Here."

"Huh?"

Confusion. Bewilderment.

Another sigh escaped the old butler's lips, "I'll take dinner to the little miss tonight. Go eat in the kitchens with the other servants now, you two. I'll be along in a little bit."

Hope entered their eyes.

"A-Are you sure, Majordomo? Strange things tend to happen in the West Wing. The little miss, we all know that she's-"

"Shoo. Scat." The old butler waved a hand dismissively in their direction as he liberated the silver platter from the younger maid's arms, "Hurry up before I change my mind."

"_ThankyouthankyouthankyousomuchMajordomo!_"

...

Majordomo Alfredo watched as the flighty maids immediately vanished down the dark hallway, a new spring to their now-cheerful footsteps -before he turned to the new task that he'd brought upon himself.

The old butler sighed. Again.

... Then turned on his heel and strode down the hallway in the other direction, heading in the direction of the infamous West Wing, one of the emptier sections of the grandiose Squalo Manor... and living quarters of one Stella Squalo.

He still had a vague recollection of the tiny little girl, from when he'd found her curled up on the stairs on the day of the master's second wedding. A few hazed memories of picking her up, marveling at how light she was, astonished at how thin she was, surprised at how _delicate_ the child truly was as she lay limply in his arms...

_People can be cruel without meaning to. And who would ever pay attention to the sufferings of a strange, sickly little girl who didn't even exist in the eyes of her own father?_

Unlike the maids, Majordomo Alfredo's footsteps were swift and silent in contrast to the slow, stuttering clacks on the ground. He was in front of the little miss's door in no time at all, raising a wrinkled hand to the rich mahogany wood.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Three times. Concise, precise, no more and no less; just as it was for all other members of the household. The master would grunt and call him in. The new missus would trill her assent like a melodic songbird. The little miss would be silent -her voice was soft, her lungs weak, so it'd be unlikely that anyone would be able to hear her through the thick mahogany door even if she _did_ speak.

So Alfredo opened the door after a brief, courteous pause.

"Little miss? I've brought you your dinner this evening..."

She was so small, so frail, and so _weak_. Her tiny frame was barely visible under the thick swan-feather blankets and the velvet canopy of her bed. The doctor had even gone as far as to advise that the little miss refrain from going under the sun too much -and thus, there were always heavy curtains drawn over the tall french windows of the little miss's room.

_By all means, a sick child who lived each day in the musty dark like this should be broken. Hollow. Lifeless._

… Majordomo Alfredo remembered the time when he'd carried the little miss back to her room when she'd fallen asleep -or was it fainted?- on the cold marble banister. On the day of the master's wedding, with tears that had ran over her thin, pale cheeks...

That had been the day when he'd began paying more attention to the little miss. When he'd discovered that not very many people actually _saw_ the little miss. To them, she was either "the sickly little girl," or "the strange little thing" that they would do better to _stay away_ from.

To them, the little miss was just an _oddity_. Nothing more, nothing less.

How many of them even saw a _child_ when they looked at her?

The old butler broke out of his contemplative thoughts to focus his gaze on the child in front of him.

Her hazel eyes were still watching him.

**III.**

Stella had always been acutely aware of the fact that she was not very well-liked amongst the servants of the Squalo household. Quite the opposite, in fact, though that suited her just fine.

It wasn't likely that she'd be here for long, anyways.

Every day was a battle, a struggle. A fight to do something even as simple as sitting up in bed, a skirmish to open her eyes to see the dull light filtering into her room, a duel to just draw in another breath of sweet, sweet air to her lungs. Every day was so _tiring_, so taxing, seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and _years_ of waging constant warfare _against her own body_.

She didn't even have the strength left to cry anymore.

Ever since the wedding, her already-weak health had taken a turn for the worst. She heavily suspected that the reason for her rapidly deteriorating state lay within the fake sugary smiles and cold, cold eyes of her new stepmother... but that hardly even mattered now, did it?

The dying girl drew in a faint, shuddering breath with a monumental effort.

... _Make it stop. Oh gods, make this pain _stop_ already..._

There was a ghostly rattling somewhere deep in her lungs, and the raspy sound was far from what could be considered as coming even _close_ to healthy. Somewhere over on the other end of the spectrum, more like.

Stella was no fool. _Someone_ wanted her dead, and that _someone_ was doing a damn fine job of it.

Death. It'd been _torture_ the first time around. Who was she to think that things might actually be _different_ this time? If anything, it was _worse_.

... And yet... despite the pain wracking her body... the _fatigue_ that was now her constant companion...

... Somehow... she still...

...

_It was then, buried under the sweltering heat of the smothering blankets, as she was upon the verge of descending into her grave once more, that Stella had an epiphany._

_**She didn't want to die.**_

Quite frankly, dying once was enough for her; she had no intentions of dying again anytime soon, and... honestly, was this sickly little creature even _her_ anymore?

_She_ was loud and gutsy, not quiet and timid. _She_ was cheerful and lighthearted, not depressed and somber. _She_ was a stubborn and resilient little creature, not this scrawny, sickly _thing_ that this horrid illness had reduced her into.

_Was she really going to give up like this without a struggle? _

After all...

_**She didn't want to die.**_

...

No, that wasn't quite right now, was it?

She _refused_ to die.

…

Following that realization, something _sparked_ within her. Through that thick fog of pain and desperation, now laced with determination and _sheer will_, it was suddenly as if she could finally _grasp _onto something -as if she'd been drowning all along and had finally broken through the froth-crested waves, latching onto a slab of driftwood.

No, not driftwood. Driftwood was too... _flimsy_, and this _feeling_ was anything but.

It was as if her hands had finally grasped _land_, as if she'd finally made it to the shore after days of being tossed and turned by harsh, unrelenting waves. As if she'd finally found an _anchor_ in this chaotic storm that stretched on and on for all eternity.

_For the first time since she'd been born in this world, she felt... calm. Peaceful. Centered. Everything that she _shouldn't _be in her state right now -everything that she _couldn't _be- and yet, somehow, miraculously, she _was.

...

Stella sucked in a deep breath -how funny, her chest didn't seem to hurt as much anymore, and breathing somehow didn't take as much effort as it usually did- and suddenly, without warning, her entire world burst into flames.

…

...

...

_Literally._

**IV.**

"... They said that strange things tend to happen in the West Wing."

The silver-haired little girl's face was completely blank and devoid of emotion as she steadily gazed back towards her father. Hazel eyes clashed against hazel eyes, and the tall man pursed his lips at his daughter's continued silence.

"I'm afraid that I must express my worries. You are the only one currently residing in the West Wing of the Manor."

A not-so-subtle hint that it was _dangerous_. That Stella should probably move out of her chambers in the "strange" West Wing, especially considering her frail health and overall fragility.

… Stella knew better, though.

"Thank you for your concern, father."

It was, after all, the first time in _months_ that her father had came into her room to check up on her.

"... But it's unnecessary. I've noticed nothing wrong these days, and you do know how the household staff likes to gossip."

Her voice was markedly stronger than it had been before, but nevertheless still soft and barely audible, even within the still silence of her dusky room.

"Rumors they may be," the man's voice was firm, "But every rumor holds a grain of truth."

_One can never be too cautious, even within their own homes. _

Paranoia was a common trait in mafia families, it seemed.

… But paranoia was also exactly the reason _why_ Stella was refusing to move away from her dwellings in the West Wing. Her father and stepmother both lived in the East Wing, clear on the other side of the manor -and it was most likely the place she'd be relocated to.

After that day -the day when her world _blazed_ to life again- her health had improved. Or maybe it hadn't. All things considered, it'd probably gotten _worse_.

Not that anyone knew it, of course.

At least, no one other than her _dear_ stepmother, whose smiles became even more strained whenever she came for a "weekly checkup" on the _dreadfully_ sick little heiress to the Squalo fortune. In fact, the woman was probably close to tearing her hair out from frustration these days.

_Why aren't you dead yet, you stupid girl?!_

Whenever the woman came to visit Stella, she liked to bring "presents." Scented candles, bags of candy, little colorful treats to "brighten up the dreary atmosphere the poor little girl lived in."

Stella found it almost funny. After all, the most poisonous animals were _always _colorful.

_You'll have to do better than that if you want to kill me, darling stepmother of mine. Do you really think that I'll move into _your_ territory like a docile little lamb awaiting slaughter? Hm?_

_If you do, then I'd advise you think again, stepmother dear._

...

Her silver-haired sire, still rooted to the side of her bed, let out a small exhale, "... I understand if you don't feel up to making the trip over to the East Wing yet, but you should consider moving soon, Stella. You'll be closer to us that way, and your mother will be able to take care of you as well."

Stella doubted that pointing out that her biological mother was _dead_ would serve to endear her to the deadly mafia assassin that she happened to be the blood daughter of.

So instead, she simply gave a small smile to the man towering by her bedside. The once-natural movement felt stiff and forced on her lips now, but she wasn't too concerned. Her smiles in this lifetime were a rarity, and this man standing before her was too unfamiliar with her behaviors and mannerisms to be able to discern this smile as fake.

_As fake as the concern he was pretending to show for her right now._

"I believe that I'm quite alright where I am, father," she said lightly, and their conversation ended.

Stella may be terminally sick and all but helpless, but she wasn't _blind_, nor was she _stupid_.

**V.**

"What's taking you so long?"

"Oh, so it's _my fault?_ Obviously, things are going wrong on _your_ end! What kind of 'discreet materials' are you giving me, huh? They obviously aren't enough to-"

"_Like hell they aren't enough!_ Are you getting attached to that Squalo girl? Listen up, it's not like she's going to live long anyways, so why are you-"

"_Attached?_ Do you realize how _preposterous_ you're sounding?"

"_Then why isn't she dead yet?"_

…

…

…

"... Fine. But if this doesn't work, then we're bringing out the big guns. You understand that, don't you?"

"... Yeah."

**VI.**

Majordomo Alfredo blinked. Once, twice.

Then he took off his spectacles, cleaned them carefully with his handkerchief, and placed them on the bridge of his nose right in front of his eyes again.

And blinked some more.

"Little miss...?"

The sight in front of him was incredible. Surreal. Because the little miss was _standing out of bed_ and she was _holding the draperies open_ and there was _sunlight_ filtering into these perpetually dark chambers.

His voice seemed to have yanked the little miss from some reverie, because she gave a soft "Oh!" of surprise as she whirled around in a sudden movement that _couldn't_ be right, because the little miss was supposed to be _bedridden_ and completely unable to even so much as _stand_ on her own, let alone _walk_ to the windows-

The old butler blinked again.

There was a hesitant, guarded look on the little miss's face as her hazel eyes regarded him warily. On a face as young as hers, it was... _wrong_, for lack of a better word.

_Why?_

The look disappeared, and the old butler briefly wondered if it had just been his imagination. After all...

_Strange things happen in the West Wing._

It most certainly wouldn't be the first time someone had started hallucinating around the little miss's chambers...

"I'm sorry."

Nope, she was still standing there. Not a hallucination, then?

... Regardless, it was the first time he'd ever heard the little miss speak, and her voice so _delicate_ and _soft_... but those were never the words that he'd expected to tumble out of her mouth, towards _him_ no less-

"I... I forgot. How it... how it looks. I mean... I... I forgot how the world looks outside my room, so..."

It wasn't just the faltering way she'd said it, her words halting over each other as she looked as if she was still debating with herself whether to speak or hold her silence. It wasn't just the way her hands had gestured helplessly, pale fingers twitching as she struggled to express herself to another human being, interactions that she'd been sorely deprived of.

It was the way she'd _said _her words and the words _themselves_ that made him want to sweep the girl up in a hug and cry for her, since she obviously didn't even know to cry for herself anymore.

**VII.**

"Where's the Majordomo?"

There was a loud sizzle of oil over fire before the chef responded to his assistant's inquiry, reaching for a bowl of finely sliced mushrooms set to the side.

"Dunno," the man shrugged, "He said something about a little outing today, though."

The young lad's eyes bulged in shock, and the carrot in his hand dropped to the tiled floors.

"He was actually _serious_ about taking the little missus outside?" The younger man's mind seemed to have frozen over with incredulity, "And the master _agreed?_"

The chef merely shrugged again.

"Get that carrot off the ground, sonny," the man grunted, "An' how should _I_ know? 'Sides, the Majordomo served the master's father, too. Kinda gives him some sway in the household, don'tcha think?"

A brief lull of silence fell between the duo as the assistant retrieved his carrot and returned to dicing it. The chef tossed in a dash of salt to his dish before reaching for a spoon.

"... Say," the silence was broken by the younger man again, "Why does the Majordomo go out of his way for the little missus, anyways?"

…

"Hell if I know," the chelf grumbled, "Now stop your yammering and get those carrots chopped properly, _pronto!_"

**VIII.**

Everything in this world was fake. The servants took care of her every need, but not because they wanted to help her, merely to fill their paycheck. Her father pretended to care for her in front of others, when in reality he would've preferred for a daughter like this to never even _exist_. She was surrounded in fineries and luxuries that she would've been elated at owning in her previous life, but now were completely meaningless to her.

Even her _life_ was fake.

But _this_ was... real.

The breeze on her skin. The warm sunlight filtered through her parasol. The fragrant flowers blooming over the hillsides. The chirping of the birds, the dance of the butterflies, the hustle of the bees.

The old butler pushing her wheelchair, stopping every so often to let her admire the countryside view outside the Squalo Manor.

"Alfredo?"

"Yes, little miss?"

This was _real_.

"... Will you bring me here again sometime?"

"Of course, little miss."

There was a smile in his voice. Actually, there was a smile in _her_ voice as well... in addition to a smile on her face. A _real_ smile.

Stella wondered if Alfredo was smiling, too.

**IX.**

"The mistress is expecting her firstborn soon."

Stella gave a small nod to the old butler, who finished pouring out a cup of tea and gracefully handed the china cup to the little miss.

"The doctor believes it'll be a girl, but the mistress is adamant that it will be a son. She wants to name the child Superbi."

Majordomo Alfredo watched on in concern as the normally unflappable girl choked on her tea.

"Little miss?"

Stella coughed delicately into a pale hand as she struggled to regain control of her breath.

_Superbi_. Pride. Just the name itself that her stepmother had chosen for her yet-to-be-born child was enough to send alarm bells ringing through her head -a healthy boy would _definitely_ gain the title of Heir to the Squalo House, and the reigns of power would be passed onto her _dear_ stepmother- but the implications were enormous.

Superbi Squalo. Second-in-command of the Varia, the Vongola's independently-run assassination squad, the "Sword Emperor."

_He _was going to be her_ little brother?_

Stella didn't know whether to laugh or cry in light of this new information.

"Little miss? Are you alright?"

Her mind returned to the old butler standing by her bedside.

"... I... I'm fine, Alfredo," she handed her half-finished cup of rose tea back to him, doing her best to keep her hand steady, "Just... surprised, I suppose. Though I guess I should've expected, my... stepmother... hasn't visited me for a long time now... it makes sense, really, if..."

She was rambling now. A habit that seemed to have carried over from her last life, and a habit that she could do without. Something she tended to lapse into whenever she found that she couldn't think straight anymore.

_What will happen to me once the Squalo House finally has a proper heir?_

There was an unreadable look in Majordomo Alfredo's eyes as he regarded her.

_... No. What am I thinking?_

_I have a brother._

_A brother._

_A child. Alone and easily manipulated, more helpless than I will ever be._

_Someone to take care of._

_Someone who needs me._

_A brother._

_..._

_I have a brother._

Images of another boy -her blood sibling from another lifetime- flashed briefly through her mind, and Stella smiled.

A real smile, mind you.

**X.**

The Squalo House had allies, and it had enemies. It was a pity that its allies were acquaintances at best, and its enemies far outnumbered its so-called "allies."

One of the best ways to exact vengeance on a house was to end the blood of the main line. In other words, to assassinate the heir. Of course, this was made a little more difficult when the house in question made a living off of assassination jobs, but it wasn't _impossible_.

Difficult, but not impossible.

No one had really seen fit to send assassins after Stella when she'd been born. After all, it was a given that the terminally sick girl would die fairly soon, anyways, which would just be a complete waste of time and money on their part.

Superbi Squalo was another story altogether.

The second child of the Squalo line. A child who would most likely be _healthy_. A child who was rumored to be a _boy_. Someone who could raise the Squalo House back to its former glory.

It didn't come as a surprise to the master when the assassination attempts began flowing in as his mistress's stomach swelled. However, the man made a miscalculation that resulted in a grave error.

Underestimating the _hate_ of his enemies. Their _hate_, and grim determination.

"Sooo... any last words, ya bastard?"

The silver-haired man spat in the assassin's face.

"_Go to hell_."

The lithe assassin shrugged, casually dragging sharp blades through the river of blood flooding the pristine marble floors of the Squalo mansion. Screams echoed in the distance -not one soul of the Squalo House was to be spared this day, not even their servants.

"Maybe I will. Be sure to tell me what it's like there, 'kay?"

His blade swung down, and there was _blood_.

The assassin laughed.

Then he loped off the man's head for proof of his kill and joined the other assassins in their brutal slaughter of the Squalo household before they finished up and collected their pay for yet another job well done, and swaggered off for some good ol' beer in the barhouse.

Or so he thought.

...

"Father?"

Collapsed on the ground, the bloodied man wearily looked upwards at the small voice that called out to him in the darkness -and hazel eyes found hazel eyes.

"... Stella?"

The silver-haired girl was shrouded within an inferno of flickering violet flames, and, in the dim lighting of the night and her pale, pale skin, it was like staring at a wraith. An apparition.

_The shadow of a ghost that stood within the Mist alone._

"Where is my brother?"

* * *

.

...

.

Author's Notes:

This is a sort of "practice" to get back in the swing of writing again, hence the disjointed-ness of everything and the kinda drabble-like format. Written in a few hours, so it might not make much sense and probably has a lot of grammar errors. I'd appreciate some help/feedback for this... :/

Also, this drabble-thing may or may not be continued, since it's a little "practice sheet" for me. Sorry for making it a little confusing to read.

-XxZuiliu


	2. XI-XX

**XI.**

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

She'd only been assigned to marry that Squalo man, get rid of his daughter, and make sure that the Squalo family affairs were in order after that before getting rid of him, too. She most certainly hadn't expected that the questionable rumors surrounding the man's daughter were _true_; most certainly hadn't expected that she'd turn out to be so hard to _kill_. She most certainly hadn't expected to put up with this marriage charade for _years_; most certainly hadn't expected resorting to getting _pregnant..._ all for the sake of securing the Squalo family fortune.

She most certainly hadn't expected to be targeted along with the Squalo family when the mercenaries came; most certainly hadn't expected that they would be aiming to kill _her_, too.

"Just hurry up and shoot the woman so we can be done with this already!"

She shivered involuntarily.

Definitely, definitely, _definitely_ not what she'd prepared herself for when she'd accepted this long-term mission. Resorting to carrying the next child of the Squalo line in order to get her hands on the Squalo inheritance was already bad enough. She hadn't signed up for this to put her _life _on the line. Living a mafia life was dangerous enough already -for a first-generation outsider like her with no real connections or backings, no influences to fall back and rely upon, it was _hard._ The fact that she wasn't one of those born killers, not one of those natural hitmen, was just another obstacle for her. Her fighting prowess -or rather, _lack _of- was the entire reason why she'd selected this mission in the first place.

It was supposed to be a low-risk mission. Fairly simple, discreet, and _safe_.

(If her heart wasn't feeling like it was going to jump out of her throat any moment now, she probably would've laughed at the irony of her situation.)

"I usually don't kill women, but today's gonna be an exception, boys. The pay is too good to pass up this time!"

She shrank into herself -or at least, as much as she could- when the motley gang of assassins and thugs and who-knows-what-else roared in approval at their leader's words. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper at this point, and her head felt so dizzyingly _faint_, because everywhere she looked, there was just so much _blood_ spilling over the marble floors and_-_

_Click._

Her breath hitched when she found herself face to face with the barrel of a gun, gold eyes staring at silver steel.

"Y'know, you would've made a pretty toy to play with," the undisguised leer that the tall man gave her as his predatory eyes raked over her body made her stomach churn uncomfortably -which was saying a lot, since there was a godforsaken _child_ in her stomach, for crying out loud- "But orders are orders, and we need the cash."

Before she could open her mouth to protest, to tell them that she wasn't _really_ part of the Squalo Family, that she was only here for the money, too, the gunpoint moved from her face to the center of her forehead.

The icy metal froze her blood.

"Bye-bye, sweetheart."

_BANG._

**XII.**

Once upon another lifetime, Stella had a little brother.

She'd never thought too much about it at the time. After all, their relationship could largely be categorized as "normal" -they got into arguments like normal siblings did, helped each other out when times got rough like normal siblings did, and _cared_ for each other like normal siblings did. He was merely two years younger than her, so in all of her memories -even the faint, distant ones that dated all the way back to those early days of a vastly different childhood- he was always _there_.

So it never occurred to her that she might've took his presence for granted until he died. Until the little brother who'd always been with her throughout her entire life was... gone.

He _died._

She'd been standing right next to him as they strolled down the street together under broad daylight, it'd only been another perfectly _normal_ summer afternoon for them -and next thing she knew, she was staring up at the sky with her heart pounding and the world spinning around her.

It was an accident, they said. A complete accident that the young teenager had downed one drink too many at his friend's party. A complete accident that his judgment had been impaired enough by the alcohol to bleed into his driving skills. A complete _accident_ that he'd veered around that corner without really looking -and crashed straight into her dear little brother, whose first instinct hadn't been to fling himself to safety, but to _push his older sister away from the danger._

It was an unfortunate accident, they'd said. So sorry for your loss. You have our sincerest condolences, ma'am. We'll make sure proper reparations are extracted, don't worry. Would you like any assistance in arranging the funeral?

...

If any funeral was going to be arranged _this_ time around, well, it sure as _hell_ wasn't going to be _for her_ _little brother_.

(At this moment, it didn't even matter anymore to Stella that her little brother in this crazy mafia world wasn't the little brother who'd died protecting her with a smile on his face. This time, _she_ was the one who was going to do the protecting.)

… As if in response to her will, the dark indigo flames encircled around her frail body flared even higher, lightly brushing the marble archways of the bloodstained ceiling above her.

Unconsciously, Stella quickened her footsteps. From what her father's words had implied, from what she knew of this entire situation so far... she had to hurry. She had to hurry before it was too late, before-

_BANG._

**XIII.**

In his younger days, Alfredo had been a fine hitman. Nowhere near on par with the legendary ones, of course, but good enough to have had several bounties placed on his head. If it hadn't been for his failing eyesight, he probably would've continued the business for a few more years before retreating to a quiet job.

A "mafia retirement" job. Which could include anything from teaching young mafia kids how to handle a gun to being a butler in a mafia household.

(Because no one ever just _quit_ the mafia. Ludicrous things like that just never happened. It's impossible to destroy any and all contacts and connections that you're associated with in the mafia, no matter how hard you try.)

The old butler was no stranger to blood. But _this._ This absolute _slaughter_, this trail of _carnage_, it was... it had...

"Ho? What's an ancient skinbag like _you_ doing here, hm?"

... It had awakened something vicious and brutal slumbering deep within the normally gentle-natured Majordomo. If there was one thing that being in the mafia had taught him, it was that family was _important_. Even if the Squalo House wasn't a true Famiglia, even if these servants in the household weren't _truly_ family members, it didn't mean that the relations and bonds that he shared with these children were any less _real_.

Including the relations he'd made with a certain sickly little girl, his little miss, who-

His eyes widened with sudden realization.

The little miss.

Alone, weak, defenseless. These assassins were _all over_ the Squalo Mansion right now, and she was only a frail little girl -how in the _world_ had this not occurred to him earlier? The others in the household were all capable of taking care of themselves to some degree, but the little miss... What if... what if one of these men had already gotten to the West Wing? What if- _what if the little miss was already-_

_(Dead_.)

(What if it's _his_ fault? What if it's _his _fault for not being there when the little miss _needed_ him?)

...

For the first time in over thirty years, Alfredo held a gun in his hands again. Grim determination outlined his features as he threw his weathered body back into the throes of battle that it had once been so well acquainted with in its youth. But before he could pull the trigger, before he could even so much as _twitch_ his fingers, there was a loud, echoing-

_BANG._

**XIV.**

The scant few moments that it had taken for the thunderous sound of a gunshot to be registered and processed in her mind, Stella was _flying_, and the indigo flames that had formerly been passively circling around her _exploded._

Under any other situation, she would've smiled in grim satisfaction as the grown men, each skilled, adept assassins in their own right, began screaming and shooting each other. Shouts of "Where the _fuck_ did these reinforcements pop out of?" to "I thought old man Squalo already cut all ties to the Vongola!" broke out throughout the room as blood filled the air in a fine mist. They never noticed the eerie blue-violet flames creeping over their bodies as they broke into a chaotic brawl amongst themselves, never noticed the ghostly flames that left their bodies untouched as it slowly burned away their very _minds_.

It hurt.

Stella had never attempted to use so much of her flames en masse like this before, and it _hurt_. Her strength was being swiftly being sapped away with each passing moment, leaving her gasping for breath and struggling to stand on her feet. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, in an attempt to make herself focus and regain some semblance of control over her motor functions.

She tried telling herself that this pain didn't matter, that this nostalgic sensation returning to the bones of her body, reminding her of hopelessly dark days where she was little more than a cripple, _didn't matter_.

... Because nothing else mattered at this moment. Nothing other than her little brother.

_It hurts._

She gritted her teeth and doggedly trudged on through the sea of blood.

**XV.**

He was pissed. No, scratch that, he was _beyond_ pissed.

They'd accomplished their mission. The Squalo House was dead. He'd even shot that pretty golden-eyed Squalo mistress in the head himself.

So why in the _world_ were his men tearing into each other like crazed psychopaths, as if they were fighting for their _lives_ like they'd brought the wrath of the Vongola upon themselves? Besides, hadn't old man Squalo screwed up majorly over some Vongola contract and got the Varia set on his ass for a few years?

Then he paused and squinted.

Because if he looked past that bold scarlet shade of blood flying everywhere in the room... there was this strange indigo color floating around... almost like-

He froze.

_Mist flames._

… There was a goddamned _illusionist _in the Squalo House. Wasn't the Squalo House famed for its strong _Rain_ affinity? Heck, even the people it _hired_ were required to have Rain flames as their main Dying Will flame affinity!

So where the hell did a _Mist_ user come from?

Even when the flames vanished a few moments after, leaving behind nothing but absolute carnage in its wake, there was still an apprehensive feeling coiled deep down in the pit of his stomach. An illusion affected all five senses, but it was just an _illusion_. Only once you truly believed that an illusion was actually real, _then _it was over. And if whatever this illusionist had done was strong enough to make a good twenty or so of his men turn upon each other so violently like this...

His footsteps quickened, even as a curse fell from his lips. He really hoped that the illusionist had died in the crossfire of the massive suicidal battle that had erupted between his men.

**XVI.**

If she hadn't died once already, she would be wishing that she was dead right now.

She was utterly and hopelessly lost. Her flames were almost completely spent, her body was continuing to deteriorate by the _second_, and the entire world was spinning around her. Everywhere, the sounds of battle filled the once-regal household -and she _still _hadn't found where her stepmother was. That gunshot earlier -she had this unsettling doubt gnawing away at a corner of her mind, and it was _maddening_, because-

Stella's lungs seized and she coughed harshly.

_It's hopeless._

What could she do? She couldn't find her brother, she was running out of strength to continue going on, and she'd be _dying_ if she kept this up-

(But then again, what _else_ could she do?)

"... Little miss?"

Even though the old butler's normally smooth gait was a little unsteady, even though the fine silk of his immaculate clothes were soaked in blood, something inside her softened and broke. The little child within this body of hers tore loose from the firm grip she'd been keeping on herself and _launched_ straight into the old man's arms, ignoring the smoking gun in his hands that almost shot her on instinct alone.

Because somewhere, inside the childish part of her mind that the adult part of her shared with this young body, she knew that Alfredo was _safe_ and would never try to hurt her, not like her stepmother or the other servants in the household, consciously or not.

… And if her eyes were feeling a little moist, well, it was probably also because of her childish half acting up again, too.

Then she noticed something. Something _important_ and so glaringly _obvious_ that it was borderline _preposterous_ that she hadn't noticed it the first instant she saw the old Majordomo, hadn't noticed when he'd only used one arm to return her embrace.

He was holding a small bundle in the crook of his other arm. A small, bloodied bundle that was barely even moving, so _unnaturally_ still that it felt _wrong_. Because that bundle held the body of a tiny child, an _infant_, who was most certainly-

"Your brother, little miss." There was a tired smile on the old butler's face as he moved back to allow the silver-haired girl a better view of the infant he held, "The mistress was dead when I arrived, but I was able to... save the young master. Although, we must hurry to a medical institution. I fear that his condition will worsen if we do not stabilize him in time, the mistress had been dead for awhile before I chanced across her body."

_Brother_.

Pale fingers reached out hesitantly towards the baby's face.

"We must hurry now, little miss. Time waits for no one."

**XVII.**

Truth be told, Alfredo was worried. _They were running out of time._ The nearest hospital was too far -even driving, it would take at least an hour to reach the nearest medical facilities located to the Squalo Manor, which was squirreled away in the middle of the mountains in the middle of nowhere.

Privately, the old butler admitted to himself that he didn't think the young master would make it. But the look on the silver-haired little girl's face when she saw her brother -that jarringly open look of _relief_ and happiness, coupled with that gaze of childish wonder when her bone-thin fingers reached out towards the infant...

Subconsciously, Alfredo tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Right now, they could only pray and wait for a miracle. Because if the young master could survive -well, then it could be considered as a miracle on par with the little miss's own survival herself.

**XVIII.**

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the child was dying, and Stella was no one's fool.

Infants all had a frail constitution at birth, and Alfredo, for all his skills and talents, was no trained medic. The relief that she had experienced at seeing her brother _alive_ was rapidly fading now as she anxiously sat on the soft velvet seats of the black limousin speeding down the country highway.

Infants were supposed to _cry_ when they were born. This eerie silence, this barely-audible intake of each wavering breath as the tiny little boy struggled to bring air into his lungs...

Stella swallowed roughly.

_Something is wrong._

"Alfredo, how long until...?"

The old butler briefly glanced back towards the silver-haired girl chewing her lip as her soft voice trailed off, leaving the unfinished question hanging in the air.

"There's... roughly half an hour until we arrive at the medical facility, little miss."

Thirty minutes.

_He's not going to make it._

Stella never noticed how hard her nails were digging into her palms until she felt a slight stinging sensation, and looked down to see blood.

_Blood. There had been so much blood that day a lifetime ago, the day that the car crash occurred... There had been so much blood today, the blood of the assassins flooding the pristine marble floors of the mansion..._

Stella was sick of blood.

_The blood of an infant is nothing in comparison to all the blood that has been spilled. But even so, I'd rather myself be dead than letting him die._

_(Again.)_

_Little brother... you've always tried to protect me, even though I was the older one..._

_..._

Hazel eyes shadowed, Stella turned a speculative gaze on the unnaturally still infant who was secured onto the back seat next to her in the limousin.

Well.

Mukuro had been able to keep Chrome alive with his illusions, hadn't he? Even though the flames inside her were already on the verge of flickering out now, even though she knew that her body would cease to function once she was without these flames...

… surely her illusions would be strong enough to keep her little brother alive until they reached the hospital?

...

Indigo flames burst into existence again. But even though the flames were small and barely covered the body of the little infant, there was this brilliant _intensity_ laced within the fiery luminosity of the flames now.

This brilliant intensity that could only be born from the determination of a Dying Will.

**XIX.**

"_WHAT? The Squalo House was attacked?_ _Who the hell was crazy enough to do this? No, wait, when did this even happen? What were the factions involved? How did they even get past the- no, get me a report. Shut your incessant stuttering and just send me a report. I want a detailed account on _everything_ that happened in the Squalo Mansion last night!"_

**XX.**

Alfredo had always known that the little miss was different. He'd always had his suspicions, but he also remembered to hold his tongue in check... unlike many of the other servants in the household.

Mist flames. The little miss was a _Mist user_. At any rate, it explained a great many mysteries that had surrounded the West Wing.

It also begged the question of how she'd even discovered her flames in the first place. But questions could come later -the questions could come after both little children had been properly treated in the hospital.

After all, the little miss had collapsed not even three steps into the reception area, and was quickly whisked away into an emergency room along with her little brother approximately an hour ago. Perhaps the blood splattered all over them had alarmed the hospital staff.

Not that he was complaining, of course, if it gave them priority in receiving treatment...

But the questions could wait. He trusted the little miss. He would ask her the questions later, after she had recovered from her exhaustion.

Right now, all that mattered was...

"Sir?" A young nurse strode over to the old butler briskly, clipboard in hand and a pen between her fingers, "You were the one who brought those two children here, correct? Both are stable now and are sleeping quietly, but there are still a few things that we'd like to ask you..."

Alfredo was a patient man.

(... But even a patient man has his limits.)

* * *

.

...

.

Author's Notes:

Even messier than the last one, sorry.

As you may or may not know, I currently have another story in the works right now, and I'm definitely not going to be able to update it any time soon. So instead, I finished the last few parts for the second chapter of Polaris, since it takes less time to write and I know I have a few readers for this, too. :)

Feel free to correct any mistakes you find and don't hesitate to ask if you're confused by any of the parts. Tiny drabbles that jump around and switch POVs tend to do that to people...

**IMPORTANT**

(...For me, at least xD)** _Would you be interested if I started writing a KHR fanfiction?_**


	3. XXI-XXX

**XXI.**

"Hello, little miss. Starting from today, I will be your tutor. Are there any questions?"

Sometimes, Stella wondered why she even bothered trying to pretend that she was a child anymore. It wasn't like she could continue hiding any longer -in retrospect, the uncanny interest that her father had immediately developed towards her upbringing was... jarring, to say the least. Jarring, and unsettling. All things considered, though, she really should've seen this coming when she'd been throwing around Mist flames like nobody's business that night.

(But, honestly speaking, she _really_ couldn't quite remember the last time when she'd felt such potent _rage_ and _concern_ and _fear_ warring with each other all at once on such a large magnitude.)

She wondered if she'd ever feel it again, grimacing when she realized that the answer would most likely be a 'yes,' considering the mafia world she now lived in, was now being prepared and groomed to be thrust head first into in lieu of her new circumstances being brought to light...

"Little miss?"

_New circumstances._ Stella didn't like those two seemingly insignificant words, didn't like the dark meaning that they implied, didn't like the foreboding aura that leaked from them, but there was nothing she could do about it.

(Not now, at least.)

Instead, the quiet silver-haired girl simply smiled at the stern man who would be her tutor in just about every aspect of mafia life for the next few years to come. It was a small, oddly polite smile, one that successfully threw the man off balance for a moment considering she was supposed to be a withdrawn child who was supposedly opposed to any sort of human interaction. A soft little smile which hid all traces of her inner aversion and revulsion to the fact that she was being condemned to live in blood from this day forward.

(The mafia was not a kind place.)

So Stella did her best to place those darker thoughts out of her mind for the moment and neatly laced her thin, wiry fingers together in her lap as she looked up at the tall man looming in front of her. It was almost intimidating, considering how she had to do so from her seat in the wheelchair, but she was comforted by the presence of good old Alfredo standing ever so silently behind her.

He was her anchor in this bloody underworld that was changing far too quickly for her liking, morphing into a form of chaos she was completely unfamiliar with.

… Still. She had to at least _try_, didn't she?

"I have but only one question, sir," she said lightly, soft voice quiet and demure, "When will my lesson begin?"

Make no mistake; Stella wasn't looking forward to the mafia lessons that her tutor would instruct her in. But if she was doomed to be thrown headlong into the underground wars of vengeful mafia families with hidden agendas and less than kind intentions one layered on top of another, then the least she could do was to prepare herself for the inevitable trials to come in the imminent future. The least she could do was to learn how to adapt and survive.

(That, and there was another part of her which desperately wanted to become strong -strong enough to protect her new little brother, who was now the newest addition to the number of occupants living within the West Wing.)

**XXII.**

Alfredo was concerned.

The old Majordomo had good reason to worry. Following the slaughter that had occurred at the Squalo Mansion, it was as if things had been abruptly switched onto a high-speed timeframe, with no signs of the much-needed pause button anywhere in sight. The old butler was well aware that the attack from the assassins and mercenaries and the consequent death of his second mistress would no doubt have severely rattled the master. In fact, Alfredo would be even more concerned right now if the master _hadn't_ been affected.

But that was neither here nor there. What had the old Majordomo so concerned right now was that the master's attentions seemed completely focused into cultivating and squeezing all the resources remaining at his disposal in a monumental effort to exact vengeance upon each and every family, _even Famiglia_, which had partaken in what was swiftly and unofficially becoming known as the "Squalo Massacre."

(Truthfully, it was no surprise how quickly the news had spread in the upper, well-connected mafia circles. After all, once upon a time the Squalo House had been renown through all of Italy for its illustrious lineage and long history, for its domineering -not to mention overwhelming- battle prowess and unparalleled ferocity in combat, the unfaltering loyalty and honor that ran in Squalo blood.)

Pride, too.

Pride was both a great strength and a critical weakness for the Squalo House, which seemed to run inherently in the blood as well. It was a trait that the master seemed to have gained more than his fair dose of. Alfredo knew that it was his pride which was driving the master to seek vengeance. It was his pride that urged him to enact repercussions upon those who'd dared to attack the ancient and noble Squalo House.

Yet, there was the dwindling strength of the Squalo House that the master had apparently failed to take into consideration. Alfredo knew all too well of the dwindling strength of the once-revered mafia House (which honestly couldn't quite be classified as a House anymore, technically speaking, if only due to the glaringly obvious lack of blood descendents), knew of the heavy injuries and losses that had been suffered by the Squalo House during the assault that night, knew of the master's fraying connections with influential Houses and Famiglias throughout Europe courtesy of his fiery, temperamental nature.

… The old butler just wished that the master wouldn't drag the children into his mad plans as well. Alfredo wasn't blind to what the master was trying to do -hiring a tutor for the sickly daughter he'd always ignored before discovering her Mist flames? Taking time to arrange swordsmanship lessons for a toddler who could barely even walk straight yet?

The Squalo House was beyond doomed. The master was driving straight towards the abyss of absolute destruction, and there was nothing that Alfredo could do to prevent it.

(His heart, hardened from years of tears and triumphs and endless struggles in the dark world of the mafia, now wept whenever he saw that strangely distant look which sometimes overcame his little miss's eyes. Each time, he vowed again and again to himself that he would be there to hold her hand whenever she needed him -no matter how those hands had been stained and steeped in blood from the master's orders.)

...

Alfredo knew. The bone-weary butler knew long before anyone else that the master's quest for vengeance, his self-imposed mission to restore pride and dignity to the Squalo name, was doomed to end in failure. He knew long before the master's plans were placed in motion, but there was nothing he could do.

Helplessness. It'd been... a strangely long time since he'd last felt it, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation to become reacquainted with.

(Idly, the old butler wondered when he'd began referring to the Head of the Squalo House as "the master" rather than "his master." But he supposed he wouldn't have to worry about how to go about addressing his employer much longer if the now-unhinged man really decided to go through with his delusional, suicidal plans.)

And so Alfredo worried. He worried of his little miss and of the new little master. He worried of the fate of the Squalo House.

He worried of the bleak future that lay ahead.

**XXIII.**

The chef was concerned.

Ever since the "Squalo Massacre," he'd always felt a little off and a tad bit jittery. Perhaps even a little skittish, as one might say. There was a certain paranoia haunting him nowadays, proof of which he now only felt safe sleeping with a kitchen knife under his pillow and a frying pan by his hand.

So it was completely understandable that his master was acting oddly now, too (particularly in the early days that had followed the mass slaughter) -completely understandable that his master's behavior would continue to stay strange long after those first few restless months had passed. A full-scale assault like the one that had occurred (a full out _massacre_) would definitely be enough to change any man.

The chef frowned as he recalled that _other_ time when his master's behavior had changed, mind drifting away from the buttery sauce he was currently preoccupied with.

He distinctly remembered that earth-shattering time when his master had gotten into a hellish dispute with the Vongola Famiglia. Rumour had it that his master was the one who'd drafted the plans for running an independent assassination squad within the Vongola. Rumour also had it that, though the Vongola Nono was supportive of those plans and also approved of them, he'd also appointed someone else to be the head of the elite combat unit.

The chef scowled.

… Which was _completely_ unacceptable. His master should've been the one placed in charge! Who did the Vongola think they were, brushing off one of such status as his master the way they did? The establishment of the Squalo House far predated the creation of the Vongola Famiglia (who'd started out as a plain bunch of simple vigilantes, anyways), not to mention, his master's skills were _definitely_ above that of whichever hoodlum the Vongola Nono had (obviously) mistakenly decided to crown as leader.

(The devoted chef had stoutly ignored the rumours of a duel that had taken place for the position of authority in the assassination squad. A rumoured duel that had occurred between his master and aforementioned hoodlum. A rumoured duel that had ended in his master's defeat. How dare the Vongola tarnish the reputation of the Squalo House with rumours like that? How _dare_ they?)

The chef turned away from the sauce simmering on the stove, and attacked the slab of fresh beef sitting innocently on the counter with a renewed vigor.

… Last time something as earth-shattering as this "Squalo Massacre" had happened, his master had abruptly severed all ties to the Vongola Famiglia and proceeded to launch several sabotage missions against them (the chef was sure that it was only by the grace of his master's magnanimous, forgiving nature that none of said missions had left any permanent damage on the Vongola). There was no doubt that his master would be taking action again this time around, enacting repercussions on those who had dared attack his noble House, and the chef supported his master wholeheartedly.

The chef was merely... _concerned_ about how his master would go about exacting vengeance. Loath as he was to admit it, the Squalo House had even fewer allies to depend upon these days (really, what was so good about alliances with those upstart Famiglias like the Vongola and Giglio Noria, anyways?) and mounting any sort of head-on assault like the master was obviously preparing for was... probably not the wisest choice.

After all, not many resources had been gathered (scrounged) together, more alliances had been rejected (lost) than made, and the Squalo House currently seemed to be on a downhill trend as of the moment (the noble mafia House looked well on its way to ruin).

… But he had faith. The chef was confident that his master would be able to find a way to restore the Squalo House back to its former glory. He'd said as much in all of those constant, impromptu speeches that he made to his children whenever he returned to the manor during a break from his constant stream of back-to-back jobs. Those words that came from his master's mouth during those times were often more than enough to bring tears to his eyes, embarrassing as it was.

(After all, his family had served the Squalo House for many generations, and it was almost _painful _to see the shambles that were left of its former glory, remnants of its former power.)

"Er... Chef, I think the sauce is burning!"

The chef whirled on his assistant, snapping out of his daze and straight into what was mentally dubbed by the kitchen staff as the 'slave-driver mode,' "What do you think you were doin', letting it burn? Didn't I tell you to watch it earlier?!"

"Wait-you never-"

"Idiot boy! If you start daydreamin' again like this, I swear I'll..."

No matter how grim the current situation seemed to be, the chef still had hope. After all, the little miss wasn't so much of a liability anymore, and his new little master was quickly growing up to become a child prodigy of the sword under the tutelage of his father, a genius just like his master.

He was sure that things were definitely going to start looking up soon.

(... Right?)

...

Gathering his worries close to his heart, he turned them into dreams instead.

And so the chef dreamed. He dreamed of his master reclaiming his rightful position at the pinnacle of the mafia underworld. He dreamed of the Squalo House being restored to its former glory.

He dreamed of the bright future waiting just beyond the horizon.

**XXIV.**

The tutor was concerned.

It wasn't that the little Squalo girl he'd been assigned to teach struggled to grasp basic concepts or had any trouble retaining information (stuff that made up the nightmares of competent teachers like him). Far from it; in fact, the diminutive little girl soaked up knowledge like a proverbial sponge, making frightening progress in all areas -from learning how to bypass security networks undetected to brewing a cup of strong espresso coffee.

It wasn't that aptitude for learning which concerned him. He'd most certainly seen his fair share of prodigies and geniuses. What had him concerned was that single-minded determination she threw into her studies _every single day_. Because, as far as he knew, no child _ever_ devoted themselves to their studies like that -really, most children would be doing their best to find ways to skip out on lessons and go play under the sun at her age.

(Then again, the little Squalo girl had... special circumstances which prevented her from overexerting herself or performing intense activities. He supposed that it gave her a little leeway in matters like this, but that intensity and focus she threw into each lesson was _unnatural_, it was completely and utterly-)

"How is she progressing?"

The hitman folded his arms across his chest. It wasn't just the girl who unsettled him in this strange household...

"Stella's doing well," he responded in a quiet tone, "She shows a remarkable talent for the intelligence field. Even though she doesn't seem to like doing paperwork, she's fine working with both legal and illegal documents alike. She's also good at reading into what other people-"

"What of her combat prowess?"

It wasn't natural for a child to submerge themselves into their lessons the way she did. It also wasn't natural for parents -even accomplished mafia assassins like Squalo Sr. here- to focus only on their children's fighting strength and ignore all their other skills.

It wasn't _right_.

"Her Mist flames are..." _Strong. So strong and so potent for a child of her age that it's almost ludicrously preposterous._

The tutor's fingers twisted themselves together behind his back.

"... adequate." Why was he doing this? Why was he lying through his teeth to his employer? True, there was something off about the little girl... but he had an inkling that her father had _plans_ for her. Plans that no child should ever be aware of, much less be actively involved in.

(He deliberately ignored the voice in his head snickering that he was getting soft, that he'd let a little girl grow on him. That he'd let himself actually become fond of and attached to this sickly child who was too young and too old all at the same time. That he cared for this pupil and didn't want to see her get hurt.)

His throat turned dry as the rest of the words flowed to his mouth.

"It would be prudent for her to gain better control over them before actively using them in combat situations. I would also like to be able to go over simple battle maneuvers with her as well, should she ever-"

SLAM.

The hitman-tutor blinked as the man's fist crashed into the polished surface of the mahogany desk in front of him, the wood splintering under the force of the violent blow.

"See to it that she _gets better _by the end of this year or you're _fired_. Is that clear?"

…

He wasn't quite sure exactly when Stella Squalo had become less of a student to him and more of a... daughter. Perhaps it was in those moments when she'd fallen asleep in the middle of studying or in those times when her eyes had lit up with genuine fascination at learning something which thawed his professional, icy demeanor. Maybe it was during those instances when he'd stood next to the old butler and saw that unrestrained, childish glee leak through her carefully constructed mask which really struck him.

Whatever it was, he'd buy as much time as he could for her. Squalo Sr. was not known for his patience and good temper, but he'd try his best. He didn't want Stella to fall victim to her father's plans and become a mere pawn on the chessboard -he wanted to see her grow up and become a formidable player in her own right, Squalo Sr.'s controlling nature be damned.

And so the tutor watched. He watched the little girl who was a young daughter to him learn the ins and outs of the mafia world under his guidance. He watched her blood father appraise her with calculating eyes as she grew.

He could do nothing but watch as the distant future drew closer and closer... and closer still.

**XXV.**

"_... It's been months since you've last checked in. Report."_

"_The Squalo House is still very much in disarray, sir. There have also been no changes in his behavior. Recently, it appears that he will finally be taking actions soon. We've been monitoring the statuses of many of his activities, and there have been indications that he won't be lying low for long."_

"_Heh, that fool is finally going to make his move. I'm surprised that he even had the patience to set aside years to prepare for his revenge... pity that he'll just be playing directly into our hands now. It's high time that the Squalo House disappear for good... like the forgotten legend that they are."_

**XXVI.**

Lightning streaked through the darkened skies, immediately followed by the low rumble of rolling thunder. Raindrops hurled themselves against the windowsill in a mindless rage, their wordless fury fueled by the wild winds howling through the night air.

Stella blinked blearily, her mind not quite processing the fact that she'd somehow woken up at two in the morning with a thunderstorm pounding at her window. She'd always been a heavy sleeper, particularly so in this world because her weak body _needed_ its rest, and she's always thought that nothing short of the apocalypse would ever rouse her awake...

(It was bloody freakin' _two twenty-six_, for crying out loud!)

The silver-haired girl rolled over in her bed, ready to toss a pillow over her head and go back to sleep, before she heard a dull 'thump' through the thin walls in the room adjacent to hers.

The room which was occupied by one Superbi Squalo.

_Her little brother._

In a flash, she was wide awake -the fogginess of sleep rapidly dispersing as adrenalin rushed through her veins- bare feet pounding against the cold floor, Mist flames automatically wreathing around her body, Stella threw open the door of her room with a strength belying her usual passivity and spun on her heel, towards her little brother-

Throwing the door open to his room, Stella froze as panicked hazel eyes clashing against startled gold.

"... S-Stella? W-What're you doing here?"

The little girl's mind kicked into overdrive as she quickly scanned her little brother for any signs of injuries. Which was strange, since he didn't seem to be hurt -even though she'd _clearly_ heard that ominous 'thump' mere moments ago-

"Oi!"

Her little brother's expression had morphed from startled to annoyed now. But strangely, it seemed... forced, almost as if he was actually-

Stella felt her suspicions become confirmed when lightning flashed again, illuminating the small corridor in a ghastly shade of white, and the little boy nearly jumped a foot in the air.

Superbi Squalo. Second-in-command of the Varia and the exalted "Sword Emperor."

… He was scared of thunderstorms?

Watching the little boy scuffle his foot nervously, Stella began piecing together an image in her mind. Most likely, he'd fallen out of bed or some other such thing as the thunder reached its crescendo -even now she could see him fidgeting as low thunder chased high lightning across the night sky.

When children were scared or suffered nightmares, they usually sought comfort from their parents. But their father wasn't in the house right now -the man almost never was; who knew what he was up to these days?- and he'd always told them to be "brave," for they were the ones who held the arduous task of "upholding the noble Squalo name." She could imagine the inner conflict warring within her little brother right now -on one hand, he wanted to do his father proud and remain "brave," but on the other hand, he was just a little boy who was _scared_.

(He didn't want to be left alone in this dark storm.)

Stella had never wanted to hurt someone as much as she did her biological father in the instant that she saw her little brother flinch again from another roar of lightning. The man held the unerring loyalty and love of his son by relation of blood alone -what had he ever done for his child? When had he ever been around to care for him? On that matter, when had he ever set aside time to be with _both_ of them?

Tutors and private lessons were the only lasting impressions that the man had made on this empty mansion.

"Superbi," voice gentle, the silver-haired girl softly smiled at her little brother, carefully concealing all traces of discontent for their sire from her face, "I'm having a hard time falling asleep right now with this storm going on. Will you let me stay in your room with you tonight?"

Her words were carefully phrased so that it would seem to the boy that _she_ was the one scared and in need of comfort. Even at such a young age, Superbi was nothing if not stubborn...

When the two children curled up together in bed and Stella felt her little brother finally _relax_ in her arms, the girl idly wondered what their father was doing at the moment. Mafia affairs were busy and messy, that much she understood -and hadn't Iemitsu all but abandoned Tsuna for the sake of the Vongola Famiglia?

… But still.

Her thin arms tightened around her little brother as she felt him stir in discomfort again at the monstrous roar of another thunderclap.

_What kind of father neglected his children this way?_

**XXVII.**

**Control:** This is Control. Requesting report. Establishing connection...

...

**001:** Connection established. This is 001. Operations are all going as planned.

**Control:** Status check.

**001:** Phase one has been set up successfully, target ***** is currently being monitored. Time: 1900 hours. Location: *****. Phases two is now underway and preparations for phase three are still in progress. Orders?

**Control:** Proceed as planned, report any changes in the situation.

**001: **Affirmed.

**Control: File 001 has been updated. **Terminating connection.

…

…

…

The middle-aged man cast a wary glance over his shoulder before sucking in a deep breath and entering the building. He was a respectable, upstanding citizen -it wouldn't do for him to be found with connections to the mafia now, would it?

**XXVIII.**

"Little miss?"

The silver-haired girl turned around, "Yes, Alfredo?"

"I understand that you're working on a large project right now, but it's still unhealthy for you to stay up so long."

The old butler warily eyed the long lines of programs and codes trailing over the computer screen that the little miss was hovering over. He'd never been much for computer jargon like these -all those numbers and indecipherable words made his eyes hurt.

The little girl smiled at him.

"Don't worry, I'll be taking a break soon."

Alfredo nodded.

He'd have to come back later to check on her again, though. Prodigy or not, the little miss was still sick -she _needed_ her rest. He'd come back later with a cup of that chamomile tea she was so fond of and coax her into bed for a nap. Heaven knows that it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to do this.

Come to think of it, the little master had gone into the training rooms an awful long time for his daily sword practice...

The butler sighed.

Children. When would they finally learn to take care of themselves properly?

**XXIX.**

Years. _Years_. Precious time whittling away into nothingness, waiting for the right moment.

Was he ready? He didn't know. Everything had been so perfectly _clear_ the moment he'd held the body of his dead wife in his arms, cradled her gently, felt her blood trickle upon his skin. Nowadays, it was almost as if he was always in a perpetual fog with a blurry goal in sight, a goal that he was forever stumbling towards.

He had his moments of clarity. But the fogginess more often than not took over the clarity... which was why he drowned himself in his work and dedicated himself to preparing himself for his _goal_.

No, not just _his_ goal. _Their_ goal. Even if his children themselves didn't know it yet -that was okay, they were still young. They'd understand when they grow older. His little darling little daughter was plenty mature enough already.

(He also hoped that they'd understand it wasn't that he didn't _love_ them, far to the contrary, but duty always held a superior position to family for people like them. That was just the way the mafia worked.)

It was time now. Time to exact proper vengeance for that night, the night of the so-called Squalo Massacre. Time for their name to be respected again and whispered with reverence and fear throughout the mafia world.

He'd show them. He'd show them all the might of the noble Squalo House.

_It's time._

**XXX.**

"_... Sir?"_

"_Finally. The moment we've been working towards for all these years, the culmination of our perseverance... starting from today, the Squalo House's days are numbered. Initiate Operation VENDETTA!"_

* * *

.

...

.

Author's Notes:

I admit, it's been a really long time since I've last updated (even longer than the first) and, strictly speaking, I should've updated my other story first before turning to this one. Well. Life kept me busy and I kinda lost track of what I was going to write for the next chapter of my other story so I decided to update "Polaris" first before trying to crack the writing block on that one. :D

So. It's a little messier than usual, perhaps, a few cryptic sections that won't make sense until much later, and a sliiight cliffie at the end. Confused, anyone? xD Based on what reactions I get from readers, I may revise the contents of this chapter so a few more details are revealed to have this section make more sense.

Summer updates will be erratic. VERY erratic. Hopefully no more sudden hiatuses... :/ Oh right, new KHR story. Well, the plot bunnies are running around in circles in my garden, so until I finally catch one of them you probably won't see a new KHR story posted. Sorry if I got your hopes up.

On another note, I've recently read a story called "Spirited," written by OceanSpiral. I normally stay far away from Pokemon fanfics, but a friend suggested it to me and I loved it. ;) So now I'm getting all hyped up to start a Pokemon fanfic while wanting to write a KHR fanfic when I should be finishing the chapter to my other story...

Hm. I wonder if I should try to stick with writing what I have so far or just switching to write whatever I want to write...

Well, anyways. Comments and constructive criticism are much appreciated. :D

Until next time,

-XxZuiliu


	4. XXXI-XL

**XXXI.**

**Control:** This is Control. Requesting report. Establishing connection...

...

**021:** Connection established. This is 021.

**Control: **Status check.

**021:** Contracts have successfully been formed with targets *****(1) and *****(2). Currently tracking target *****(3). Time: 1300 hours. Location: *****. Orders?

**Control:** Alterations to mission plan. Track target *****(3) but do not form contract. Target *****(3) will be brought in for interrogation. Proceed to form contracts with targets *****(4) and *****(5). Target *****(6) will be relegated to **019**. Rendezvous with **017** after mission completion.

**021:** Affirmed. Any changes to rendezvous location?

**Control:** None. You will be notified if new changes occur.

**021:** Understood.

**Control:** **File 021 has been updated.** Terminating connection.

…

…

…

The brunette stretched as she stood up from the cold wooden bench, a small yawn escaping through her lips. Jamming her hands into her pockets, she hummed a small tune as she effortlessly wove through the throng of people on the streets, never letting the ginger-headed man ahead out of her sights.

She idly fingered the sedative hidden in the folds of her long overcoat.

**XXXII.**

_Something's not right._

It was hard for Stella to put a name to this strange feeling of unexplained apprehensiveness, and the young girl frowned. True, she was no scion of the Vongola line, blessed with the legendary "Hyper Intuition," but still.

There was tension in the air -and she'd be a fool to not feel it.

(Besides, her father was in the house more often these days. That little fact was more than enough cause for concern, in her opinion.)

_The storm is coming, and you've already done all you can to prepare for and counter it. _

_But will it be enough?_

**XXXIII.**

"Sir, if I may ask… what are we doing out here?"

Carmen shot a sharp glare back at the 'cannon fodder' doggedly trailing behind his footsteps.

"Project VENDETTA," he said shortly, turning back and determined to ignore the kid. Who, sadly, couldn't take the hint to _shut up._

Completely oblivious to his superior's growing ire, the persistent boy soldiered on blindly as he followed Carmen through the forest trails. A twig snapped under his foot, startling a bird into the air, and Carmen felt his lip curl derisively.

"I still don't get why we're all sent out here, though." The kid yammered, crushing another twig just as thoughtlessly in his clumsiness. _Thank goodness this isn't meant to be a stealth team._ "Well, I mean, the Squalo House isn't even worth much anymore, right? Only the Main Family lives in the manor now, and how hard can it be to kill a single man and his kids?"

… _Tch._

"We're not taking any chances with those who bear the Squalo name." Carmen stepped _over_ another rotting branch. And almost winced when he heard the same blundering fool trip over it, anyways. At least the others in the team weren't as careless... "Squalos… They have the rather… _annoying_ tendency to survive whatever is thrown at them."

_And I intend to put an end to them..._

…

Crunch.

_Goddamit!_

**XXXIV.**

"Come."

It wasn't a request. It was _command_. And _that_ bothered Stella more than anything else as she warily raised her eyes towards her solemn-faced father.

… Something was _off_.

She closed the book in her lap.

"What is it?" Evidently, her little brother held no such wariness towards their father. The young boy immediately jumped to his feet and ran towards the similarly silver-haired man sitting across the foyer from them, glancing over his shoulder once to see if his sister would follow.

Stella gave a small nod to the old Majordomo standing beside her, and Alfredo gently wheeled the frail girl over to her father. Her wheelchair glided smoothly over the velvet carpet as she followed her little brother, cautiously running her eyes over her father again.

_This feeling, it's almost… unnerving._

"My children..." The man's voice was deceptively soft. "Do you know what today is?"

Stella remained silent. Superbi, as if finally catching onto his sister's feelings, fidgeted but kept his silence as well.

"Today is the anniversary. _Our_ anniversary. The anniversary of what they call the 'Squalo Massacre…' Pah, what do _they_ know? They know nothing. They know _nothing_ of our true power, those ignorant fools…"

It was almost as if they didn't exist anymore. Wordlessly, she drew her brother close to her, ignoring the seven year-old's half-hearted attempt to get away from her. She knew that Superbi was just as disturbed as she was at their father's behavior, no matter what type of strong front he tried to put up for her -their father was prone to rambling, but his ramblings had never taken on _this_ direction before.

It felt… dark. As if the man was lost in his own little world, talking to himself within the confines of his own mind, and was trying to drag down his own children with him.

"... Seven years. _Seven years._ Seven long years have I waited for this day…"

Stella did not to be a bearer of Hyper Intuition to know that something was _wrong_.

"Superbi," she whispered softly, "Go to back to your room."

When the little boy looked as if he wanted to rebel against her, she added in a sharp tone, "_Now._"

It was a tone that she rarely used, only when she was dead serious.

"Alfredo, take Superbi back to his room. Please."

At this, even the old butler appeared as if he would protest against her words, but Stella's attention was no longer focused on them anymore. Instead, her eyes were locked on her father-

-sharp hazel eyes tracking that glitter of _madness_-

"Alfredo. _Please._"

_Before he notices. Before we can't escape._

The madman looked straight up at them, and she froze, a single thought running through her mind as she saw his eyes.

"Come to me, my children. Let us have our revenge on this world. We will bathe in the blood of our enemies and let the Squalo name be feared again."

_He's insane. He's really insane._

**XXXV.**

There was a tiny part of Superbi Squalo that had always known that there was something _off_ with his father. That the man was never really there -even when he was present in the manor with them, he wasn't, y'know, actually _there_.

But there was a larger part of the young child that craved his father's attention.

So he'd pushed himself. Hard. He'd done everything he could to earn his father's approval, even when he could barely stand upright at the end of the day. Even when his body was covered with hundreds of cuts and bruises -wounds that he dared not let his sister discover- and when his sword left blisters on his calloused hands, he persisted.

Superbi Squalo was nothing if not stubborn, and his determination would not allow him to back down. He'd never be able to forgive himself if he did.

_But had he been wrong all along? To force himself to his limits as he did? To ignore and brush aside his sister's concern?_

"Come to me, my children."

Squalo didn't move. There was something… _scary_ about all this. The little boy chanced a quick glance towards pale-skinned sister -and saw that her eyes were narrowed and her lips pressed tightly into a firm line.

Eek.

"... Why won't you come? Come to your Papa, children… Papa will take you to where those bastards are hiding… Papa will show you how to play with them and make them scream…"

…

"Why aren't you coming to me, my beloved children?"

_Why was he getting a sense of danger from his own father?_

The windows shattered.

**XXXVI.**

_Guns. Multiple guns. Snipers._

Stella's hazel eyes tracked the happenings in the room with a detached air as Alfredo leaped into action, pulling out his own handgun in response and pushing the children behind him. Squalo Sr. roared in pain as he was shot in the shoulder, blood immediately blossoming from the wound, and Stella drew her brother close to her to shield him from the sight of their enraged father.

His uncharacteristically animalistic scream made chills run down her spine.

When dark blurs came into the room, rolling and firing like nobody's business, it was completely by instinct alone that Stella ignited the flames slumbering within her body.

Mist Flames.

Fired bullets disappeared into thin air as the indigo flames arched over the room, twisting and writhing as it settled over the mantelpiece, around the bookcase, under the tables…

"HOW DARE YOU ATTACK ME IN MY OWN HOME!"

Sword flashing through the air, each blow from the silver-haired man became a little stronger, a little heavier, a little wilder, as he engaged a hooded man in battle. Stella recognized the man instantly -not personally, she'd never actually met the man before- from pictures she'd seen in stolen files when her tutor had taught her how to infiltrate private networks and databases.

"I WILL _CRUSH_ YOU!"

… This wasn't her 'father' anymore. That man had been cold, cruel, and calculating. The man fighting before her right now was anything _but_, judging by his impassioned rant and wild blows. She'd noticed changes in the man, subtle changes which had began seven years ago -but never had she thought that this _madness_ would progress to such an extent that it would fracture his mind like this.

It was almost as if he was more monster than man now. How long had he been putting up an act in front of them?

She watched as her hazel-eyed sire was knocked to the ground, the blade of a gun-sword pointed at his head.

(A mimicry of what had transpired in this room seven years ago on this exact same day.)

"Your glory days are over, Silvestro Squalo." The not-quite familiar man finally spoke, baritone voice low and unwavering, "You are _finished_."

Her heart nearly stopped as there was a sudden _movement_, and her little brother tore away from her.

"_Father!"_

Panic.

"Superbi, no!"

"Little master, get back!"

A flash of silver, and someone _screamed_.

**XXXVII.**

Stella didn't feel anything for her father. For her, there was only one man that she would ever consider to be her father -the one who cared for her, raised her, took care of her in all the ways that only a _real_ father would- and she knew that _that man didn't exist in this world._

Superbi, though… Superbi was another story entirely.

Whereas Stella couldn't care less for her sire, Superbi did. And _she _did cared for her little brother. So when she saw the little boy collapsing to his feet, looking like the world had ended, something in her heart went-

_Schlick._

The sound of a knife sliding through flesh, being retracted from the dead body. Flecks of blood peppering the ground, before growing into a small trickle, a steady stream.

(She couldn't help but feel that it was an anticlimactic death for the pitiful man who'd looked like he wanted to die in a blaze of glory.)

There was something in Stella _snapped_ when the man turned his eyes on her little brother and raised his weapon again. Something pounding like a war drum in her ears -_notmybrothernot__**him**__youbastard!_- even as Alfredo started forward, ready to fight for the little master, but he wouldn't make it in time, the man was too close to her brother already-

Stella swallowed roughly.

And spoke.

**XXXVIII.**

"Carmen Bellini, twenty-five, unmarried. Born into the Estraneo Famiglia. Assassin. Fifty-eight successful solo missions, thirty-second time in a group mission acting as squad leader. You are to lead a frontal assault on the Squalo Manor and eliminate the remaining Head Family of the Squalo House."

Alfredo stiffened with shock as he heard this information fall off the little miss's tongue. The assassin, on the other hand -Carmen, was it?- froze in his tracks and turned towards her voice, gun-sword still trained on the little master. When it seemed as if he were about to take a step towards the little miss, the old Majordomo raised his handgun warningly at the assassin.

_Back off._

"Seven years ago, a freelance agent hired by the Estraneo Famiglia sent back precious intel." The silver-haired girl continued, "This operation was highly secretive, so much that only those directly involved knew of it. The deep-cover agent discovered intel regarding the place where the ancient Squalo House kept records of its financial assets. Intel that detailed the place where this information was hidden… in the Squalo Manor."

The little miss's unblinking hazel eyes were fixed upon the Estraneo assassin with a frightening intensity.

Her voice grew softer.

"Seven years ago, you proposed Project VENDETTA to your superiors."

"That's enough," the assassin finally spoke, voice low and harsh, "Enough. Shut-"

"Project VENDETTA. Vengeance for unsanctioned mission seven years ago where many had fallen in the 'Squalo Massacre,' no?" There was a dangerous smile on the little miss's lips, making her look almost ghostly in the purple firelight as she wielded her words as one would swords. "I wonder how many of them knew the true reason. How many knew that the Famiglia desperately needed new investments for their next project? How many knew that _you_ were the one who led the first operation to gain the Squalo House's financial power?

How many knew that you later developed a... _special_ relationship with that deep-cover agent?"

_BANG!_

The assassin held a knife to the little master's throat, his gun-knife now pointed at the little miss and smoking from its most recent fire. But the bullet was engulfed by indigo flames as soon as it left the gun's barrel, disappearing immediately.

_Mist flames._

The pleasant smile on the little miss's face never faltered one bit despite the gun trained on her, icy and piercing as her cold hazel eyes observed how the assassin had begun quivering ever-so-slightly. Alfredo couldn't help but feel a trickle of sweat roll down the back of his neck at the sight.

This wasn't the little miss. The little miss that he knew would _never_ act this way…

… Would she?

Alfredo's eyes caught the fearful and defiant gaze of the little master.

_No… she would. She _would_, wouldn't she?_

The little miss's voice sounded in his ears again.

"How many knew the identity of your agent?

How many knew… that she had assumed the role of the _Squalo Mistress?_"

**XXXIX.**

"... How do you know all this?"

_Checkmate._

Stella laced her bone-thin fingers together in her lap.

"Perhaps," she said quietly, hazel eyes never leaving the man's harsh gaze, "A better question to be asking me is this: 'What do you plan to _do_ with this information?'"

The man -Carmen- pressed his hold on the knife he held to her brother, drawing a thin line of blood.

"You don't scare me, _girl._"

"I know," Stella agreed easily, amicably -even though she wanted to _strangle_ the man for handling her Superbi like that- "I don't cut a very imposing figure now, do I? I'm not like my father -I don't strike fear into the hearts of my enemies and all that, but imagine what would happen to you if, say, your superiors caught wind of your true motives…"

The man's breath hitched.

(Her eyes caught the movement, even if _he_ didn't.)

"Watch your tongue," he commanded, which Stella ignored entirely.

"Imagine how tragic it would be if the Estraneo Famiglia's classified information was mysteriously distributed throughout Italy," she murmured conversationally, as if they were simply talking about the weather. _Careful. Superbi._ "If the details of their next experiment were made public. I wonder how others would react?"

"..."

"It would be oh-so-_tragic_, wouldn't it? The entire mafia community uniting against the Estraneo?" Hazel eyes glinted frostily, "What do you think? Don't you agree with me… _Carmen_."

"... What do you want?"

She was close. _So close._

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I can _help_ you, y'know." A chilling laugh. "I can donate some funds to your Famiglia. I can protect your secrets. I can give you _information_-"

_Clang._

The sound of a knife abruptly being slammed back into its sheath again.

Victory.

A game of predator and prey, where the tables had turned and _she_ was the one who held the cards now.

"... You ask me what I want, Carmen? Release my brother. Then we'll talk."

When the man obeyed her and stepped away, Stella finally, _finally_ felt her heart fall back into her stomach again.

"Alfredo, please go put on the teapot, Mr. Bellini and I will talk this over some chamomile…"

**XL.**

"Sir?"

The kid was confused. After the strange flames had gone up, everything went black -until he found himself marching after Mr. Carmen Bellini again, this time _away_ from the Squalo Manor, and with the mother-of-all-headaches _pounding_ at his head.

Carmen didn't bother paying attention to the kid this time, though.

The assassin's mind were preoccupied with thoughts of a monster -a silver-haired monster in the form of an undersized girl with cold hazel eyes and a bone-chilling smile, a soft, haunting voice that somehow knew exactly what to say and where to attack him…

He scowled.

Sick? Dying? If those rumors were true, well, _he_ certainly couldn't see it -and no wonder _she_ had so much trouble trying to kill this 'Stella' seven years ago.

Plagued with thoughts of hazel eyes and indigo flames, there was still one question that made its way to the forefront of his tumultuous thoughts…

_How had she known everything?_

It didn't make sense. He _knew_ that she'd never left the Manor's grounds -there was no way that she could've slipped past his surveillance net unnoticed. And yet, somehow she had access to all this _information_. Information that _no one_ should've known, information that hadn't even been properly _documented_, dammit-

"Sir? Why are we walking so fast?"

Carmen's scowl deepened.

There was something _off_ about that child. That silver-haired girl who reeked of death and commanded the Mist, whose hazel eyes were too cold and too old, whose mind was too sharp and too _twisted._

There was something wrong with the girl. Ten years old, and already as shrewd and as calculating as she was -had she predicted his arrival? If so, why hadn't she protected her father? And why would she have _bargained _with him -if she was so unmoving to her own father's death, then why would her little brother have mattered any more to her?

(If anything, _he_ should've been the one who cared more for Superbi Squalo, if only because he was _her_ child and had _her_ eyes. Those same sharp gold eyes. It'd been so _hard_ to point his blade at those golden eyes.)

As of now, there were only two things that Carmen was dead sure of.

_1. The girl isn't normal._

_2. She's dangerous._

Thoughts of her chillingly unnerving smile rose to mind, and Carmen's scowl deepened even further, permanently etching itself into his face as he suppressed those damned, involuntary shudders that threatened his traitorous body.

Well, there was one more thing that he was dead sure of -He never wanted to see those hazel eyes again. Ever.

* * *

.

...

.

Author's Notes:

I know it's not very clear, but it's kinda been implied already (and hinted at), so here's a question to y'all: Does anyone know _how_ Stella knows everything about the Estraneo? (This point will also be elaborated on in the next chapter and made clear in the near future) I realize that Stella was made a little OOC here, something which is picked up on by Alfredo, but it's because her little brother is being threatened/held hostage. So if anyone missed that, well... you know what happened.

Let me know if it feels too weird, though. :/

... And sorry for the 3-month disappearance, by the way. I'll try to put up notices ahead of time if I vanish again like that.

"Senkei" has been updated yesterday, and a new fic similar to how "Polaris" is written has also been posted -a new Naruto story called "Kikoeru?" (also SI OC, heavily involves the Uchiha). A KHR fanfic is currently in the works. ;) Okay, I got convinced to write a KHR fanfic -finally- but it might not be posted for a bit. We'll see. Kinda depends on if anyone is still interested.

Till next time,

-XxZuiliu


End file.
